TODAY IS TOO LATE

by Burke Fitzpatrick

  III

  Einin watched the empress snarl. The royal face twisted into a mask of agony as the labor pains grew worse. The empress’s fingernails tore into Einin’s hand, squeezing the bones together until they ached. Such tiny hands, yet they clawed at Einin with tremendous strength. She had never midwifed before, had no idea what to do, and winced whenever the empress groaned. Out of her depth—not yet twenty—she needed to prove she could do this. Neither of them wanted help with the birth, and as the ordeal continued, as the pain grew, Einin worried that they had made a terrible mistake. Empress Ishma sounded near death. Einin fussed with a cloth, wiping a sweaty brow.

  “It’s all right,” Einin lied. “You’re doing great. Just a little longer.”

  Ishma let out a low moan. Einin could tell she tried to control the noise, but there was only so much she could do. Unfortunate images would not leave her alone: the empress bleeding out, a stillborn heir, the royal family’s blood all over Einin’s gown. She would have to kill herself, knew this, and tried to push down the doubts. Whenever Ishma groaned, Einin imagined herself visiting the axman.

  She felt the small vial of poison secreted in her belt. The glass bit into her hip. They had known the risks, and the empress planned contingencies, schemes within schemes, and assured Einin the putrid liquid would be gentler than Azmon’s interrogators.

  “It’s all right.” The words didn’t mean anything anymore, but she hoped they comforted. “Everything will be fine.”

  Moans gave way to panting. Ishma fell back into her pillows. She looked spent, raven-black hair matted with sweat, a pinkish flush in her clammy cheeks and a puffy redness around her eyes. She had spent hours struggling with waves of pain followed by brief moments of exhaustion.

  Einin wiped her brow. She had no idea if this was normal or things grew dangerous. She had never bothered to learn about childbirth. The Royal Court of Rosh had a small army of physicians. But that was the problem. The empress did not want the court to know of the birth.

  “Water.”

  Einin lifted a glass to Ishma’s lips.

  Ishma said, “I think it’s close.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  Einin bit her lip at the blasphemy. The longer the birth lasted, the more informal they became. She had helped Ishma dress for banquets before, but now she held the woman’s life in her hands. Pain erased the boundaries between them. They were distant cousins and distant friends, a rigid relationship. Einin might pass as her sister, but no one would mistake the two. Ishma was the great beauty of Rosh, the Face That Won a War. Even pregnant, Ishma’s cheekbones made Einin appear common.

  Ishma closed her eyes and arched her back. Her eyeballs rolled behind their lids, and she gasped as she inhaled. Einin’s hand shot out, covering Ishma’s mouth before she screamed. They fought. Ishma pulled at the hand and shook her head.

  “Forgive me.”

  The spasm passed. Ishma’s shoulders sank back into the blankets. Her exhausted eyes sought out Einin’s, and she nodded once.

  “I will check the door. Are you all right?”

  Ishma waved her away. Sweat dripped from her forearms as she covered her face and panted.

  They had done what they could to muffle the noise: heavy drapes over the four-post bed, hangings on the walls, and blankets stuffed into the cracks around the door. Pillows choked the windows. The extra layers with the summer heat made the room an oven. It smelled of unwashed flesh.

  Einin rested her ear against the Shinari oak. The wood was smooth and cold. She heard the scratch of her hair, the thunder of her pulse, but nothing worse. She feared squabbling noblewomen, imagining a knot of them outside the door about to barge in. So far, no one had noticed the birth, and their plan worked.

  The empress cried out, and Einin about dropped to her knees. Thoughts of the poison vial filled her with dread. She lunged for Ishma.

  “Empress, that’s too loud.”

  A sneer twisted the royal face. “I don’t care.”

  Einin clamped her hand over the empress’s mouth. A sharp pain tore into her fingers. Ishma bit her. Einin pulled her hand back. She tried to swallow her own cries.

  “I can’t breathe when you do that.”

  “I’m sorry. But you make too much noise.”

  “It’s coming. It’s now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Help.”

  “How?”

  “Just help.”

  Einin crawled into the bed to support her convulsing body. She had no idea what she was doing. Terror had been replaced with a sense of failure. She cradled the empress, powerless to stop her pain. Ishma pushed at the sheets. Einin used one hand to hold her and tried to pull away the rest of the sheets, but they stuck to the empress. She was naked, covered in sweat, and the blankets would not be kicked off.

  Einin felt strange climbing into bed with her, a familiarity that broke all the rules of etiquette. They were cousins, similar in appearance as far as height and build went, but Ishma was the great beauty of Rosh, a face made famous by a thousand songs. Ishma outshone her, despite being swollen with weight from the baby. Einin would be considered young and desirable if she stepped outside Ishma’s shadow, tallish with fashionably slim shoulders and a pleasant face, but the empress made most women look plain. Einin watched her struggle and wondered why no one wrote songs about childbirth. Where were the poets to chronicle the grunting, sweaty mess?

  “Let me help.”

  “It’s coming. Oh, make it stop.”

  The empress climbed into her arms. Her fingernails dug into Einin’s shoulders, and her groans morphed into a growl. She no longer sounded human, panting like an animal. Ishma buried her face in Einin’s arms to muffle her cries.

  Einin held on, thoughts of poison filling her mind. She had never asked what the poison did and hoped it made her sleep before it killed her. She watched Ishma suffering. Could the poison cause this much pain? Why had she agreed to this?

  Then the empress performed a miracle, a feat that Einin didn’t believe as she watched. Ishma curled upward, knees near her shoulders. Both hands reached around her swollen belly while her entire body convulsed in one last push—legs trembling, shoulders shuddering, eyes watering—as she moaned and birthed the heir. She seemed to pull the baby and catch it all in one motion. She clutched the slimy thing to her chest and collapsed into her pillows.

  The room became quiet. Einin wanted to lie down beside her. She needed a moment to collect herself, maybe a nap. A calm, a gladness spread through her. The noises had stopped. No one had died.

  She stiffened. Babies were supposed to cry. She reached for the child. The empress pushed her away.

  “Empress, something is wrong.”

  “Nothing is wrong. It’s over. Everything is fine.”

  “Empress.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  “Empress, the child is not crying.”

  Ishma’s chin dug into her neck as she eyed her baby. Working together, they rolled the wrinkly thing onto its back, wiping away fluids and purplish goo. Einin’s fingers gently probed the nostrils and mouth. Gunk covered the face. The tiny head seemed too still, so small, wisps of white hair—stark-white hair—eyes closed in a knot of creases, a heartbeat, purplish skin, tiny little hands clasped in fists.

  “Einin, what is wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her attention pulled to the umbilical cord, still attached and so morbid, this yellowish and gray thing connecting the heir to the empress. That cord belonged on an animal, some mare in a pasture, not the Empress of Rosh.

  “She’s not breathing.”

  “Her heart beats.”

  “Is she choking?”

  The empress patted the child’s back, like a feather at first and then a more desperate slap. The child coughed, and the mouth opened to cry. Einin pulled her hands back, arrested by confusion. The child made too much noise,
but she didn’t want to hurt it. Please, let it stop crying. They had come too far to be caught now.

  The empress comforted the child with soothing sounds, caressing its face. Einin leaned out of the four-post bed to check the door. Never having been the fainting kind, she wanted to faint now; how wonderful would it be to black out until this ended? Stupid thought. She’d awake in the hands of interrogators.

  “Did you see her chest?” The empress leaned in close, smelling the baby’s head.

  “I did.”

  “The visions were right. Yes, they were.”

  The child had a birth rune. The geometric pattern, a few lines, was white and raised against the skin: a natural rune, very rare, making her a Reborn hero from ages past. Etched Men were given runes by sorcerers, but there were a few heroes born each generation with real runes. Outside of Rosh, feasts would celebrate the birth as a miracle. Since the rise of the bone lords, the Roshan had begun killing Reborns.

  The child stopped crying. It looked more exhausted than the empress. Something about the face—maybe the eyes wrinkled shut—appeared ancient.

  Ishma sniffled. “We did it, Einin.”

  “Yes, Empress.”

  Einin removed a few pillows from a window and watched the streets. Outside, no one pointed at them. No one at the door. They had done it.

  On the side of the palace, almost too far to the side to see, a blue star burst over Shinar. The brilliant light cut through the smoke and competed with the sun. Late afternoon, the star would shine brighter as the sun set. Einin marveled at the display until she realized it was for the child.

  “Empress. There is a star in the daytime. A blue star.”

  The empress talked to her baby. “That star is for you.”

  “Why would the seraphim do that? Why would they warn the bone lords?”

  “They don’t. A star always announces a Reborn.” She talked to the baby. “If we were home, in Narbor, we could have a Blue Feast. We would; everyone for miles around would want to see you at the unveiling.”

  Einin had never seen such a feast. Narbor had not had a Reborn in generations. She wanted to imagine such a thing, the capitol flying blue flags, and revelers dancing in masks, but they were surrounded by the bone lords of Rosh.

  “We need more time to prepare,” Einin said. “Do they work against us? What does it mean?”

  The empress craned her neck to see the window, but the bedposts obscured it. Einin thought about moving her and decided against it.

  Einin wrung her hands. “What do we do?”

  “What we planned. They don’t work against us. It is a gentle reminder to hurry.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing has changed.” Ishma wiped her eyes. “It’s not like it is a surprise. We must save her from my husband.”

  The royal couple had tried for over twenty years to conceive an heir, and gossip at the court couldn’t decide which of them was infertile because Azmon had no bastards and Ishma had never been pregnant. When Ishma predicted the pregnancy, Einin pitied her. At forty-four, most agreed Ishma’s childbearing years were behind her, yet the poor woman longed for an heir so badly that she became delusional.

  Then she conceived, a small miracle, and of all the ladies at the court, Ishma chose Einin to confide in. None of the sorcerers, priests, physicians or mystics could explain the pregnancy, but they all expected a miscarriage. Ishma summoned Einin to the royal apartments, alone. The empress attempted conversation, looked nervous, and Einin wasn’t sure what to do.

  “My child will have a rune. It’s a Reborn.” Ishma looked relieved to have said it. The nerves evaporated, and she continued. “I know this sounds strange, but I also know you are the one to help me.”

  “Empress—”

  “I’ve seen it. In my visions.”

  Einin forced a smile. The empress had told her of the visions over a year before. They disturbed her sleep. Ishma dreamed of seraphim and executions and dead babies. She sounded disturbed.

  “Don’t condescend to me, you idiot girl.” Ishma took a deep breath. “Do you know what this means? Have you any idea what the bone lords do to the Reborn?”

  “No, empress.”

  “They kill them; a dozen have died so far. And they don’t care how old they are. Little old men or newborns, it doesn’t matter. Those with birth runes are put to death.”

  “How can you know the child will have a rune?”

  “The same way I knew I’d be pregnant. The seraphim show me. In my visions.”

  Einin winced. Faithful or not, no one spoke like that. The seraphim and shedim played games with mortals; they impersonated each other and sought to corrupt each other’s servants. While a few cults worshipped the angels and demons, most priests agreed there was only one God, and the faithful should be wary of demons passing themselves off as angels.

  Ancient myths from the Second War of Creation told many stories of demons using good men to commit terrible crimes in the name of the Seven Heavens, and the Age of Chaos, which followed the Second War, was worse. No one wanted attention from angels or demons, and people who craved favor usually had other problems: madmen proclaiming themselves prophets. Einin had never heard of a madwoman. Ishma might be unique.

  “The child is in grave danger.”

  “Yes, empress. But what can we do?”

  “We must get the child away from the court. My husband will keep me close, in my condition, but we must find a way to take the child away.”

  “Empress, that’s—”

  “Treason. Death would be a kindness compared to our punishment.”

  “All of this, for a dream?”

  “I won’t watch them kill my daughter.” Ishma’s face hardened. “I’ll die before I let them have her.”

  Einin breathed faster, heart racing. Betraying Emperor Azmon, one of the most powerful sorcerers of the age, tempted horrors beyond death. He used the dead to make horrible monsters. They would never get away with it.

  “A daughter?”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “You know it will be a daughter?”

  “I do.”

  Ishma winked at Einin, and they became conspirators. She could do that, pull a person into her world with a friendly gesture. She had this power over people, had dazzled Azmon with her beauty to save their homeland, and her charisma took up space in the room. Einin felt its tug, a gentle push, the empress’s charms making it easier to break rules.

  Einin doubted Ishma’s sanity until she saw the heir, a daughter, and with a birth rune as well. Perhaps the seraphim had visited the empress. The worst part fell to her. Ishma was watched daily; every physician in Rosh wanted to please Azmon by providing a safe birth. They had no means to escape before the birth, and Ishma was in no condition to run afterward. Einin would flee with the child. She had hoped and prayed the child would be born like any other, and this nonsense of trying to run with a newborn would go away.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Ishma asked.

  “Yes, empress.”

  “You’ll have a small start on them. They’ll check on me. I can’t stall long.”

  “I know.”

  “Expect them to start the hunt before supper.”

  “I know, empress.”

  Ishma kissed the child. She handed the tiny bundle to Einin, who had not expected such a small baby. The slightest stumble could kill the little thing. Einin played with the blanket, wrapping it around the child’s face, and she noticed the eyes, milk-white cataracts. The skin was pale as well, and the hair was white as straw.

  “Empress, her coloring is not right.”

  “I know. It is her curse. She will not have an easy life.”

  “Her eyes—”

  “You will have to help her… when she gets older.”

  “Of course, empress.”

  Einin had to start running. She must start. Planning to run was easy, but now, the moment upon her, all she could i
magine was tripping down the stairs with the child in her arms. So many things could go wrong before she made it to a horse. After she found one, riding with the child would be worse. She couldn’t help but imagine a dozen morbid tragedies. A thrown horseshoe would be disastrous.

  Einin asked, “What is her name?”

  “Marah.”

  “A sad name.”

  Ishma watched the bundled baby. Her ghostly face didn’t register the comment. “Trust no one, Einin. I mean no one.”

  “What about Tyrus?”

  “Once, he might have helped. Years ago, we were close and he was a real guardian to me, but that was before the civil war.” Her voice trailed off. “He is the emperor’s creature now.”

  Einin cradled the child. She had to start running. Everything felt wrong, and she wanted to hide in a corner, but she must start. She had never been so aware of wasted daylight before. She already felt hunted.

  “I will say you stole the child. You can never return.”

  “I know.”

  Einin headed for the door. She arranged a riding cloak around her gown, large enough to hide the child but unseasonably hot. The soldiers wouldn’t notice the fashion mistake, but noblewomen would think it odd.

  “I do not deserve your friendship.”

  “No.” Einin closed the door behind her. “You don’t.”

  Einin playacted the noblewoman on a demanding errand for the empress. She had to remind herself that the Imperial Guard did not know she was a traitor, not yet. Ishma had taught her to walk like this, to scowl at questions, to hide behind the royal persona. Her effectiveness came down to confidence. She walked with a sense of entitlement, head raised, eyes cold, and it worked. The guards knew her and stepped aside. To delay her was to anger the royals.

  She had practiced the part since childhood and played it well, but her stomach fluttered, and cold sweat clung to the small of her back. Part of it was the layers of silk she wore; the dresses didn’t breathe at all. The cloak didn’t help. Nerves did the rest. A trip or a brush with a person that provoked a cry from Marah would give them both away. She tried not to think about it or rearrange her cloak.